


Good Old Song

by plastics



Category: Seeing Other People - Belle and Sebastian (Song)
Genre: 1960s, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Boarding School, Jealousy, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 08:35:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24348106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plastics/pseuds/plastics
Summary: His shoulders were blistering pink as the cherry red Thunderbird pulled around the corner—so slow it was almost sexual, and that before it pulled to a tantalizing stop in front of him, tendons stark in the tanned arm leaning hanging out the window.
Relationships: OMC/OMC
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12
Collections: Jukebox 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reine_des_corbeaux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reine_des_corbeaux/gifts).



As a girl, Mrs. Thompson—of course, she was still a Callaghan then—had always loved snow, the way it could muffle the world in perfect whiteness. This was also when she still lived in Virginia, where winters were reliably mild and only occasionally established themselves as an uncaring force of nature.

Marrying Mr. Thompson meant saying goodbye to all that, moving up north, and getting used to life in the city, specifically in one where the blizzards whipped off the lake could smother busy streets just as completely as it had her family’s farm. 

The day started mildly enough by local standards, meaning that the frigid chill in Mrs. Thompson’s bones hadn’t thawed in months, but Eamon, who’d come screaming into the world during another such blizzard, could barely be forced into his jacket before rushing out the front door.

And then it had gotten much worse very quickly. The power cut off no more than fifteen minutes after Eamon rang home to say, “I’m fine, but it’d probably be better if I stayed… Of course Mrs. D doesn’t mind—Mama, we don’t really have a choice right now, are you listening to the news?”

While Eamon and the De La Rosa boy’s friendship spanned the entirety of their time at Elk Creek, its strength seemed tied to the confines of its campus, and it was something of a surprise to hear that Eamon wasn’t just messing about with the other neighborhood boys.

It took the better part of a week to clear the streets, starting at the city center and spiraling outwards. Mrs. Thompson was still awake as the snowblower finally rumbled by, but she waited for sunrise to wake Mr. Thompson; she still wasn’t comfortable driving on icy roads, and the De La Rosas lived in a neighborhood that she did not spend much time in.

“Do you think they will be awake at this hour?” Mrs. Thompson fretted once they had pulled up in front of a vaguely familiar townhouse. There was still no way to call ahead, but she was suddenly very aware of the propriety in showing up unannounced with nothing in hand after they had spent a week housing her son, who she loved, but… 

“Well, they’re about to be now,” Mr. Thompson replied before cutting off the engine and swinging open the car door. Mrs. Thompson was quick to follow.

Luckily, it did not take long for someone to appear at the door after a solid knock from Mr. Thompson, although Mrs. Thompson cringed as it triggered the sounds of barking from within the house. Her family had had hunting dogs, but having them in the home wasn’t a concept she was fully sold on. It was something they both agreed on.

Mrs. De La Rosa was a particularly short woman whose streaks of gray were stark against the depth of her dark hair, and, despite the early hour, her voice was loud and lively as she greeted the Thompsons and welcomed them into her home once again, all while herding the two dogs down and away.

“I hope Eamon hasn’t been too much trouble.”

She scoffed. “No trouble at all, that boy is almost too straight. My boy, though, I would’ve been shooing him off the ceiling if there hadn’t been something to keep him busy. Now, have you both eaten? Stocks have run a little low, but I usually like making something special on Fridays and I’m just about finished—”

A thump sounded from upstairs, and warmness crinkled in Mrs. Thompson’s chest that her son was still recognizable in the echoes of an unfamiliar house. On its opposite face, she looked hard to find discontent in Eamon’s face as he trailed hotly after the other boy and a third, elderly dog down the stairs, a hint that he was glad to come home, and found none.

Her analysis was validated when, later in the car, after a very large, unfamiliar breakfast which Eamon ate several servings of, he asked, “Why did you come get me? I would’ve come back once it was safe.”

She turned in her front passenger seat to see him pressed into the opposite corner. His legs, which she knew he would never fully grow into, sprawled out in front of him. He would need a haircut before returning to school. “Well, we missed you, of course,” she replied, knowing he would not be able to truly understand for many years yet.

“I’m gone most of the year, what’s another week?” Eamon said with a rather unattractive snort. Mrs. and Mr. Thompson exchanged a glance.

“Well,” Mrs. Thompson said, “I would say that just makes these times more precious.”

Another displeased exhale forced through that narrow, straight nose that at times felt like the only anchor to the child in front of her and the child she gave birth to. She sat back in her seat and let the annoyance fester. The car remained silent through the remainder of the drive, excluding the crunch of salt and remaining snow.

“You haven’t shoveled off the roof?” Eamon asked as they pulled into the driveway.

“Well, with your father’s knee—”

“Maeve,” Mr. Thompson snapped, and her jaw snapped shut.

“It’s fine,” Eamon said quickly as he slid out of the car. He trekked steadily through the snow, toward where Mr. Thompson had last deposited the snow shovel.


	2. Chapter 2

His shoulders were blistering pink as the Thunderbird pulled around the corner—so slow it was almost sexual, and that before it pulled to a tantalizing stop in front of him, tendons stark in the tanned arm leaning hanging out the window.

“Wow,” Eamon said, and Andrés smiled wide and white, black hair combed high, eyes blocked behind gold aviators.

“Hey, there, sweet cheeks,” Andrés said. “What are you doing this fine afternoon?”

“Working. I know you might think you’re too good for it, but for some of us—”

“Yes, exactly, thank you for your understanding. Listen, you want to go grab a Coke?” Andrés responded.

“I’m _working_.”

“It _looks_ like you’re sitting on a curb, there, pal.”

It was true that most of the work had already been done. They started achingly early, to the approval of their employers. He was currently sitting on the curb of the neighborhood’s newest addition—Timmy’s older brother—and, in all honesty, all there was left to do was eat the newest Mrs. Morris’ cookies and agree that, yes, planting a few lilacs sounded like a wonderful idea, perhaps they could come around again Wednesday to help. But it was the principle of the thing. 

Of course, there was another level of irony to Eamon positioning himself as a struggling worker, and Sean ruined what little resistance Eamon put up when he dug an elbow into Eamon’s side and said, “Oh, get out of here, this pains me. We can haul the lawnmowers back.”

The engine rumbled deep beneath their feet. Eamon rose to his feet, his thighs tight. He couldn’t help drag a finger along the wax-shined column of its headlight.

He felt guilty pressing his sweaty back against the leather interior. Andrés had been bragging about his parents’ promise of a new car all last spring, but Eamon never saw the follow-through, until then. “Nice ride.”

“She is, thank you,” Andrés said, “Really sells the whole greaser look.”

Eamon grimaced. “That is such an undignified way to talk about yourself?

“You think so, Monty?” 

He didn’t respond. There was nothing to say. The fact of the matter was that Andrés was a master of his own image; the only reason Eamon knew him how he did was because, on that first night sophomore year, Andrés had appeared almost in a fugue state. He’d merely blinked the first time Eamon asked him what his name was, and the next time he snorted and said just that, _Andrés_ , like a dare.

Eamon had been an atheist since the first time his father had snorted at the concept of transubstantiation, but he was still Catholic, and so were Andrés, McDonaugh, and the Wisniewski twins. It wasn’t, necessarily, the sort of thing that was supposed to matter at Elk Creek, nor was it likely something his mother or father intended for him, but it did, especially in those first few years.

But Andrés found his footing soon enough, and through this, they all found elevation.

Out of the sun, the day’s weather settled into a pleasant warmth, although Eamon could already feel its mark building on last week’s burns. The air blowing in through the window felt good against the hot skin of his nose.

They were making good speed toward downtown. Being around Andrés made Eamon’s blood boil as an exact counterweight to the chilling effect of the placid streets winding through his neighborhood. His fingers twitched excitedly at the window sill, and out of the corner of his eye, he could see Andrés perfectly at ease, singing along to that damn Essex song that was inescapable all summer: _I got a love so true, but I'm sad and blue; ‘cause it's easier, easier said than done—_

  
  


It was late in the afternoon by the time they got to the drive-in, but there were still plenty of cars around. Andrés refused to have food in his, though, so they laid claim at one of the tables under the awning. A waitress skated up without making them wait too long; around their age, objectively pretty, with blonde styled-up hair and an easy grace to her movements. Eamon could feel Andrés sit up straight.

It took twice as long from Andrés to order his burger and fries than it did Eamon, mostly because he wanted to know what her favorite order is, when is her break, when does she get off? while her smile, a certain light in her eyes, grew.

“Don’t listen to him, Betty, he’s making me sit out here in the heat because he’s too afraid to leave a mark on his baby,” Eamon interrupted. “Does that sound like a boy who can show you a good time?” 

“Oh, which one?” Betty said, pivoting in place as Andrés rested a hand on her hip and pointed outward.

Eamon swallowed down the sour taste pooling at the back of his throat. At one point, he’d been led to believe that girls would make more sense as he got older, or, rather, that the dance between boys and girls would. Most things in life felt like a play where Eamon was ill-prepared for his part, but there was a particular fire with which Andrés and the other boys approached their conquests, obsessed with them, were driven half-mad without when the school locked them in for any extended amount of time. In them, it made sense how something as abstract as love could destroy ancient cities.

An elbow jolted Eamon out of his ruminating. Andrés had lost the sunglasses at some point, and his gaze was expectant.

“I’m sorry, what’d you say?”

“I said, how was Wahoo territory?” Andrés’ voice still sounded jovial.

Due to the fallout following his parents’ wedding, Eamon had never been close to his maternal grandparents. He only knew the state his mother grew up in through the paintings she did while the local public schools were out of session. The flat, drab farmland separating the city and the old Elk Creek had convinced him that the lushness she depicted was more based in hyperbole and nostalgia than fact.

It wasn’t as if Eamon had never felt the soothing spell of a campus locked in history, in tradition, but when his mother had laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “You can’t quite see it from here, but there’s a mountain on the other side of town with the most picturesque apple orchard—your father took me there on one of our first dates, actually, oh, it was just wonderful,” he felt it resonate the way the old stories usually didn’t.

Eamon shrugged. “The state’s pride in its treasonous history is well-noted.”

Andrés hummed. “And the coach?”

The coach, of course, being the true reason for the trip; even with his father being alumni, the school wanted to ensure that Eamon was of good character. He’d chafed at being paraded around, just as he did at company holiday parties, and the many of the heads there seemed to be made of the same hot, heavy stuff as the air they breathed.

But Coach Sardo was different, also born up north, intolerant of bullshit. He reigned over both the soccer and lacrosse teams, who were losing both goaltenders to graduation and incompetence, respectively.

“The coach was good.”

“Well,” Andrés said. “I guess that settles things.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“ _Alright._ You know, I didn’t come out here for you to flip out on me. I just thought we could have a nice afternoon, drive down the lake… are you done eating? Come on, let’s bail.”

In the car, things were quiet once more. Anxiety picked at Eamon; as much as he hated sitting by as Andrés’ charmed his way past everyone he set his eyes on, it left a guilty, greedy feeling behind to lever himself between them

Once he started paying attention, though, it was obvious that Andrés was driving him back home. And while he wasn’t overly familiar with this part of the city, he could tell that they were heading outward, towards some of the less populated stretches of parks or industry. Places he’d heard stories of, but never went to.

“Are you driving me to _Woodlake?”_

“I am.”

“… Are you sure that’s such a good idea?”

“Listen, someone’s gotta show you the ropes for when you finally get a chick,” Andrés said, “and it’s not like anyone important knows this is my ride yet.”

“Timmy does. Sean does.”

Andrés came to a sharp stop at the next light. The sun was at a bad spot on the horizon, and Eamon had to squint as he met Andrés’ gaze.

“Do you want me to take you back home? Maybe go to the movies or something like that?” Andrés said, voice hard but in a way that made it easy to believe that Eamon knew what he wanted to hear. That maybe they wanted the same thing.

Eamon responded, “No. But it’s not even dark out, isn’t that a little… obvious?”

“Even better. Who’s stupid enough to go in daylight?”


	3. Chapter 3

The start of the spring term was pushed back two whole weeks, but, despite the severity of the story, the campus itself fared relatively well. This was largely due to the school relocating from the nominal Elk Creek far out in the country to the abandoned halls of St. Lawrence Preparatory, which had withdrawn from the area along with the Erie Shipbuilding Company, that stood in the sort of town that cared deeply about its infrastructure. St. Lawrence had been a large, beautiful school, and to the boys of Elk Creek, the new campus had briefly given them a luxurious amount of space to diffuse within.

Its traditional sister academy, the Anthony School, was less lucky. It had rather enjoyed its proximity to one of the smaller lakes that scar the middle of the state, and, if the blizzard was in any way unthorough, the thaw, drain, and flood in the following warm snap certainly left no stone unturned.

Merging the two schools was quickly becoming an inevitability regardless, but the financial concerns following that winter forced a hand that would be called proudly progressive in a few decades’ time.

Andrew—Andy—Rose, as he was known for the entirety of his time at the school, sat in on these discussions as the senior class president—“Like having our own little JFK!” they’d said, and then the man had gone and been assassinated three months into the school year—and came out of them universally well-regarded, a sign he didn’t say much of anything at all. Even Anthony School’s representative paid him half a smile, which he knew from past interactions was no easy feat.

Harder was informing his classmates of the ruling. Reactions were generally positive to the idea of having girls around but generally negative to the news that they would be surrendering four of the dormitories, meaning that they—yes, including the seniors—would once again be rooming together.

Jameson threw a holy fit at the news, as was his nature.

“… as if the whole point of attending this institution wasn’t to respect the educational needs of men without interference. And to do it in our final year! It’s an absolute disgrace!”

“It’ll still be separate schools. We’ll just be close neighbors,” Andy said with a wave of his hand. 

Close, indeed. Anthony School had been on campus for less than a full day by that point, and Jameson’s imagination was hardly the only one running. Gone were the days of praying for a stolen moment during Harvest Hop or Spring Fling: the girls were right there, ripe for the taking, in dorms they’d already spent the better part of two school years mapping out. The assembly calling for mutual respect and modesty did little to cool the blood boiling in every Elk Creek student’s veins.

Well, everyone except Monty’s, but he was always a hard soul to raise mid-winter.

Jameson was still grumbling as they split off to do their rounds. Lower forms swung wildly between being too stupid to do any real harm and being too stupid to know better, and it made monitoring them an exercise in patience. However, it also meant it was easy to walk away from the night’s final shift with a mostly-full fifth of someone’s father’s favorite whisky with nary a whisper to the wind, although Andy was sure Jameson walked away with his own plunderings that he held close to his chest.

The house’s senior floor was suspiciously quiet, but he didn’t pay any mind to what may be happening behind closed doors. In his own room, the lights were all out, but he still sang out, “I have a present for you.”

His roommate groaned. “I’m sleeping.”

Monty seemed to be just about the only person on campus unphased by the new additions, but he was always a hard soul to bolster mid-winter. Hell, the student body nearly doubling in size probably didn’t register to him until there were more people than usual on his preferred routes to class.

Andy was painfully fond of him.

“We’ll have to write a thank-you letter to the Robinsons,” he said as he pulled the bottle out of his satchel. 

Monty eyed it with interest before saying, “Just a bit.”

“We’ll save the rest for the weekend,” Andy agreed. He climbed onto bed next to Monty as the other boy shifted up against the headboard. His body felt sleep-hot to the touch, and the alcohol burned going down. Somehow, Andy felt more awake in this moment than he had all day.

* * *

After the extremes of the start of the month, campus had once again frozen into place. The walk back to class the following was unpleasant but disarmed, as well. Andy had grown up in these winters, and, as much as he initially resented being sent to this school, there was some small thrill to walking its paths now, five months out from graduation without an obstacle in his path.

It helped, of course, that he hadn’t been sent to  _ this  _ school, and the disruption caused by relocation and the new egos absorbed from old St. Lawrence made just enough room for Andy to claim a foothold and lift himself up. Once the inertia started building, it’d felt like a natural conclusion; he was his father’s son, after all.

The addition of the girls ignited a similar potential. Beyond the fervent fantasies exchanged in, a strange stirring had already been working its way through Anthony for the better part of the past year. Andy didn’t even have to wait a full week before the girls’ student representative pulled up beside him after their afternoon break.

“Andrew,” she’d said as a greeting, keeping pace with his stride. 

“Andy is fine, really. And you’re Sam!”

“Samantha,” she corrected. “You’re going to calculus?” 

“We are,” he confirmed with a jerk of his head towards the twins and Monty, who seemed to pay no attention to the conversation.

“Excellent! I’ll join you, then.”

“What state of mind are you in that you’re choosing to go to calculus?” John asked while Jerry echoed, “Do you not have your own classes?”

“Technically. But the Anthony School does not offer calculus, and, since I am now on a campus that offers such a course, I see no reason to sit through another minute of typing.” 

She said it with an easy confidence, head held high, “I have to tell you, Samantha, it is not an easy nut you’ve decided to crack here. Popov is… well, he’s a monster. He’ll eat you alive. Don’t think he’ll hesitate just because you’re a girl.”

“I wouldn’t be interested if he would,” she replied with the first hint on an edge.

Andy considered. He hadn’t exaggerated; Popov was not a man who enjoyed teaching nor the students that plagued the profession, and he reacted to any sort of deviance in behavior or ignorance with extreme venom. However, his rigidity did not seem to stem from the same religious regard to Elk Creek’s history some instructors held. This, Andy decided, was something that he wanted to see play out. 

They arrived at the classroom five minutes early but were some of the last to do so. Conversation was low and dreary, but it became even quieter as the five of them entered the room. If Samantha missed a half-step, she hid it well.

The class had been dropping students since the fall, so it was easy to find Samantha a seat among largely friendly faces. Jameson, however, was always a hard pest to shake.

“What’s this?” he asked, parking himself at the corner of Andy’s desk. Andy attempted to stab him in the leg with his pen but was swatted away.

“A human woman, Jameson.”

He snorted. “Surely there are some old maids in town who could babysit your girl, Rose, honestly. Bringing her to class? That takes some nerve, boy.”

“I’m not his girl. I’m here to learn just like everyone else,” Samantha said, and Andy could tell from the look on her face that she had already learned.

“To  _ learn? _ ” He sounded a loud, performative squawk. “My dear, you are not a student of Elk Creek Academy. I do not know why you think you’re entitled to attend this class, nevermind the rigor you are surely not prepared for.”

There was a sound of a chair pushing back, and Andy had to fight a smirk as Elijiah Moore leaned back onto John’s desk. “Do we not believe in equal opportunity at Elk Creek anymore?”

Jameson sputtered. “Oh, well, of course that’s different, Eli, your father went here and you’ve proven yourself to be a strong student as well, but the Anthony girls—”

“My sister goes to Anthony. Hell, she’s in their lower form and she probably has a better grasp on arithmetic than old Monty here.”

“What has Thompson done to deserve—”

“No, he’s right, I’m an idiot,” Monty said as he lifted his forehead from the desk. “Samantha, if Popov isn’t willing to play, I’ll just give you my coursework for the rest of the year and you can teach yourself that way. Think of it this way: it’d show a strong sense of independence.”

“Actually, that isn’t a terrible idea,” Samantha responded, but before Jameson could follow through on the sour look twisting his face, the room fell silent except for scrambling back into place as Popov made his entrance.

He cast an even gaze over the room before settling onto Samantha. The proximity alone almost made Andy shiver. “We seem to have a new face among us.”

“Samantha Ackerman, sir,”

“An Anthony girl?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you not have your own studies to be tending to?”

“Nothing of consequence, sir.”

Popov grunted, and the air seemed still for a moment, but he did not take long to conclude, “Well, we’re already halfway through the course. Do not expect me to slow down for you.”

And with that, he turned his back to the class and brought his hand to the board, and they elated within a half-second thrill of a confrontation won before they were all plunged into the spiritual darkness that was mathematics.

Every Popov class passed within the same sort of time warp. If he wasn’t humiliating or embarrassing another student, his back was to the class. He would fill the entirety of the chalkboard four times over without pause for clarification, and a good day left you in a dazed stupor with another half-dozen pages of notes in a foreign language that hardly seemed to come from one’s own hand.

That Thursday passed with the same fevered scribbling as any other day, with minimal interruptions beyond the one at the beginning of class, and the one at the end.

It had been hard to gauge how Samantha was keeping up, both because everyone always looked as if they were being confronted with their own mortality—Monty’s pen froze over his notebook for the entire last fifteen minutes—and because Andy himself couldn’t spare the time. Once the question began building, however, it was impossible to not brace at its impact: “… and while keeping all this mind, would anyone mind telling me the limit of this function? Miss Ackerman?”

There was silence, except for the scribbling of pencil. Popov’s voice hardened. “Miss Ackerman, I expect an answer.”

“I’m sorry, sir, I’m thinking, it’s just that—the limit shouldn’t exist, should it?”

The room held its breath, and Popov, somehow, incredibly, smiled. “Indeed. Now, on that note, I believe it’s reasonable for the following chapter and its sample questions to be finished over the weekend. For question twenty-one, it should be understood that…”

  
  


As miraculous as gaining Popov’s favor seemed, that afternoon was hardly some sort of miraculous switch. After that first handful of classes, Samantha’s presence became sporadic at best. Other battles flared up across campus: Jerry and his girl were caught in his room, clothes still on and everything, but were still punished; the infirmary lacked the appropriate sanitary measures, and then refused to let the girls off-campus; the equestrian club initially barred Matthew Beliveau’s participation, despite his family in fact owning the stables that Anthony was partnered with.

Overall, it was a thrilling time to be at the school.

“Can you believe the womenfolk are getting ideas in their heads about careers? Abandoning their marital responsibilities?” Andy said into the back of Monty’s pale, knobby neck. Come spring, a field of freckles would bloom over every inch of skin his lacrosse uniform didn’t cover, but it was still sweet and pink beneath Andy’s lips then. “I’m just going to have to keep you around forever.”

Monty didn’t respond, his breath coming fast and high. He fluttered tight around where Andy had just barely edged in the tip of his cock before Monty threw a hand back and dug his fingers into Andy’s hip.

“You’d make the perfect little wife, Monty.” He dragged his hand over Monty’s soft, short hair then down further, pressing at wet lips before finally grasping Monty’s jaw and turning it so he could kiss at the strong cut of his jaw as those impossibly long legs tensed and shifted beneath him.

Monty gasped, “Oh, fuck,” and the hand still firm on Andy’s hip pulled him forward.

It was technically after hours when they made their way to the showers afterward, but some pipes rattling weren’t going to send anyone running. It did, however, increase the chance of running into rats.

“Do you two  _ mind?” _ Jameson snapped as the door creaked open, scrambling to turn off the knob and cover himself.

“It’s a communal shower. It’s meant to be used communally,” Monty said, with the same dry disdain that he always had for Jameson.

“Not in the way you two use the word,” Jameson sneered, and Andy could practically feel Monty twitch before he continued, “If I go to your room right now, how many little Ants would I find?”

“Go check, see how it goes for you,” Andy replied, and Jameson did little more than scowl and snark, “I guess the only real surprise is that you didn’t make Thompson wait in the hall,” as he slithered out the door. 

Typical.

They washed up in an uneven silence; the school always had a way of disrupting any sense of peace or joy that one might have accumulated just moments before. Monty, in particular, always seemed sensitive to the winds of influence, although it was rare that he showed it outwardly.

That night, though, he’d spent a long moment staring into the mirror. “Do you remember when you first came to Elk Creek? 

“… Yes?” The reality of his family’s upward mobility hadn’t quite sunken in until he’d been forced into this school; a school befitting of a politician’s son, and therefore one with connections that benefit the politician himself.

“And how we became friends?”

At first introduction, Monty sure looked the part of the Old Stock who traditionally ruled Elk Creek, with the same sort of rigidity. Neither had been quite true the way Andy assumed; Monty proved to be stiff the same way garden stakes are, and loyal to his own code firstly.

He also hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet, and, for all the bitterness he carried around, he was still so brightly naive in other ways, gasping “It  _ is  _ different” the first time he kissed anything other than his own elbow.

Andy smiled as he reached out and fit his hand against Monty’s neck, shaking lightly. “Now, that I really could never forget. You were so sweet as a little mid-form.”

“But you think— are you still…?” It wasn’t often that Monty’s gaze let anything past, but that night, there was a trembling uncertainty that Andy could hardly bear witnessing.

“Don’t let Jameson get in your head. Any girl would be nuts not to be into you,” Andy assured him—because wasn’t that the point of Elk Creek, developing boys into fit husbands?—but Monty just stared back at him for a long moment before turning back to the mirror.

* * *

The snow had been mostly cleared by the first home lacrosse game of the season, but the stinging cold had most of the audience under several layers of blankets. Andy and Samantha shared theirs as they watched the game, or, more accurately, watched Monty attempt to command the entirety of the field while confined in front of the net.

“Monty sure is… exuberant out there,” Samantha said.

“He really is,” Andy replied. “During league semifinals last year, he threatened to spank me right there on the field if I made another turnover in the crease.”

It was a fond memory, or rather, that night was. The cold air carried the spirit of Monty’s voice, if not the exact words, and filling in the blanks made Andy smile.

“… uh-huh. But you’re not playing this year?” Samantha said.

“Oh, no. Like I just said, I was never the most talented player, and, to be quite honest, I’ve been feeling lazy this semester.”

“Well, I know that last bit isn’t true. You must be  _ really  _ bad,” Samantha said, and Andy squawked in not-quite-denial. 

Elk Creek won 10-3, not solely due to Monty’s prowess but enough to guarantee that he would still be in a sour mood afterward. It was a silent sulk, though, so nothing kept him from being herded out to the diner afterward.

The food served at Larkin’s was reliably some combination of undersalted, overcooked, or room temperature, but it was technically off-campus, and that was all anywhere in town needed to be to draw a crowd. Jerry and Diane were finally off punishment, so they’d disappeared into woods, but just about every other member of the schools’ senior classes—and a few of the more precocious upper forms—laid claim to the dining room.

Andy and Samantha claim one side of a booth, his arm splayed across the back, while Monty and Rachel, one of Samantha’s close friends, claimed the opposite side. The contrast almost made Andy laugh; while Samantha was Andy’s first introduction to the growing women’s movement within Anthony, Rachel proved to be the more boisterous, more sustained force behind it all. Monty, meanwhile, was all but pressed against the window, eying the still-clinging overcast.

“So,” Rachel started, “You’re pretty amazing out there. Some of those saves, I swear, you moved quicker than I could even see what was happening.”

Monty shrugged a shoulder. “Lots of practice.”

“He’s our man for soccer, too,” Andy added. “Only because he’d kill anyone else messing up the job, but it helps that he’s good. Great, even.” 

“Oh, but not hockey? Anthony doesn’t have a team yet, but I have a lot of family up north and we always play during the holidays—”

“Not hockey.”

“Not your sport?”

“No, he’s good there, too, but the coach is a scumbag.”

_ “Andy.” _

“What? He is,” he challenged, eyes locking onto Monty’s. His eyes were as gray and dulled as the sky above, but Andy knew how to read him, the tension building through his jaw. Landry  _ was  _ a scumbag; Monty’d quit after he refused to let Moore on the varsity team, and that was just the final straw, the way he talked to players—

“It’s none of their business,” Monty muttered, and then the food had arrived, which even in its poor state was a suitable distraction as their air cleared.

Conversation drifted to Spring Fling; Andy was technically in charge of organizing the event from the boys’ end, but this mostly meant getting the right faculty to sign off on the right things, and leaving the rest to the girls—or just Rachel, as the case may be, who made Andy look like a layabout. It was a trait he admired greatly.

“… and so many of the girls are just like, ‘Oh, let’s have an English theme!’ as if every other school isn’t trying to pull off the same thing right now. Don’t get me wrong, I love The Beatles as much as the next girl, but—well, imagine Monty here with a mop top. The reality is just going to be a disappointment against the fantasy. Don’t you agree?” Rachel said, nudging Monty out of a fugue.

“Sorry, what?”

“I said, can you imagine yourself playing Lennon for Spring Fling?”

“Oh, god, no,” Monty said with a poorly contained grimace. “But I’m not really planning on going, anyway.”

“Not going!? You have to come!”

“Why?” Andy felt himself tense at the question. Samantha was a loyal friend, not prone to gossip, but she’d asked questions before, mentioned how Rachel was a girl who strove for balance, at the root of it all, and, worse, Andy knew that  _ Monty  _ wasn’t a fool, could read it in his straightening back.

“Well, I was half planning on having you as my date,” Rachel replied, her voice soft enough to pull at Andy’s heart, but Monty, the unbearable asshole, just blinked and said, “Why would I want to do that?”

Andy cut him off, saying, “Jesus, Monty, are you hungry? Should we get another order of fries? What’s your pr—”

Then DeVries, another senior on the lacrosse team, came up to the table and said, “Monty, my man! You’re overage, right? Do you think you can help with getting the booze for tonight—”

“Yes,” Monty said. “Sorry, excuse me.”

He practically climbed over Rachel to join DeVries and Karlsson, morphing smoothly back into his unshakable role, leaving Andy to apologize and clean up after him.

Monty returned to the room far past check-in. It can’t even be said that he snuck in; him crashing into the door snapped Andy out of—an admittedly light—slumber, and his undressing wasn’t much neater, his eyes closed, head tipped back. When he was finally down to his tighty whities, he pivoted not towards his own bed, but Andy’s.

“These beds aren’t really made for two men, you know. Let alone one as stretched out as you,” Andy said. It was a rote thing by then, whenever one or both of them were drunk and desperate for the sort of comfort that didn’t come easy at Elk Creek.

“We should push our beds together then,” Monty slurred as he pressed up against Andy. Andy wanted to hold onto the tension he’d been carrying since that afternoon, but they fit together naturally; it was harder to fight it.

“The mid-forms properly initiated, then?”

Monty hummed, breath hot against the side of Andy’s neck. He was quiet just long enough for Andy to assume he’d fallen asleep before whispering, “I’m sorry I was an ass to your friends.”

“They should be your friends, too,” Andy said. Monty didn’t respond, his chest rising and falling smoothly.

* * *

The first ornithology club outing of the year started the same as every other meeting. Monty and Andy woke at dawn, more or less, and reliably less hungover than Hughes, the official faculty advisor. Hughes, upon finding them on his doorstep, would look back at them as if it were the very first time he’d heard of ornithology club, and inevitably shoo them off of campus for independent study.

Frequently, it wasn’t birds that they ended up studying, but that morning, Monty had brought his binoculars and a nature guidebook, so rather than immediately heading into town, they took to one of the nature paths surrounding Elk Creek.

Birdwatching was a hobby that made more sense at the old campus. While the land surrounding St. Lawrence certainly wasn’t bustling with activity, there was still enough disruption that it took much longer to truly feel away from things, and wildlife seemed even more sensitive to the encroachment. After several hours, they spotted or heard: far too many Canadian geese, a red-winged blackbird, black-capped chickadee, several tufted titmice, a golden eagle, a few winter wrens, and another small, brown bird that Monty could not identify.

“I used to know that one,” he said, squinting down at the dichotomous key. It sent an overwhelming bubble of fondness—a welcome distraction to the rabid boredom that had been gnawing at the base of his skull—and Andy couldn’t help but lean in and wrap an arm around Monty’s shoulders. Monty played unaffected, continuing, “Is it an eastern phoebe? Although it’s a bit early for that…”

Andy leaned in, but Monty tipped his head to the side. “Maybe an unusually plump flycatcher?”

It wasn’t until Andy’s teeth met Monty’s neck that he got a reaction, but it was the usual one; Monty jerked, hard, pinching his neck up as he shoved Andy away. Andy stumbled an extra step out of pure shock. He stared at Monty, mouth still hanging open, as the other boy leaned back against a tree, his eyes locked on the ground.

The birds’ songs were the only sound for a long moment, until Monty said, “Is this going to work?”

“Is what going to work?” Andy boggled.  _ This  _ had already been working for years. Was Monty worried about feeling followed? Or—

“This! Us. When you’re married to Samantha, can we go for a walk in the woods and look at some birds, as friends, without anything extra getting in the way.”

“I’m not marrying Sam,” Andy said, because it was the easiest thing to address out of all that. Whatever else he had in his head was quickly draining out and being replaced by a vague nausea.

“How are you so sure?”

“Well, she’s going to Smith, for starters.”

“Fine, then Rachel! Or any other girl who catches your eye, here or back home or in New York. And I’ll find a girl in Virginia,” Monty wouldn’t look at Andy, but his voice took on a heavy, waterlogged sound that made Andy somewhat frantic, even as he was frozen in place. He wasn’t sure what he wanted more, to comfort his best friend or run back to campus and pretend nothing had ever happened.

“Well, you don’t have to have a wife, if that’s how you’re going to talk about it.”

“But you will.”

Andy couldn’t respond to that. The specifics of his future were still blurred in his mind, but It was true that he couldn’t imagine it all without a wife, without their children, in a house much like his own—or Monty’s. What would be the point of anything else, without them? Even when Andy and his father quarreled, there was never a doubt in his mind of how much his father loved their family, his mother, his brother and sisters, and how that was what made him a good man. What Monty was getting at… he didn’t have a problem with people like that, but it wasn’t them, what they were doing. It was just what boys did when they were locked away in a place like Elk Creek.

Monty bent at the waist, hands on his knees, and gasped in a loud, desperate breath, then another, and another. Andy could do nothing but wait until he looked up again, face red and desperate, and said, “Come to UVA with me. I know you got in.”

“Monty…”

“They’ve been letting Negros in for nearly a decade, it’s not like you’d be the only person there who isn’t—”

Even with the desperation in Monty’s voice, Andy couldn’t help but snort. “Listen to yourself. Do you think they’re happy there?”

“Were you happy when you first got here?” Monty countered.

“No. All the more reason not to do this to myself again. Maybe if you’d tried a little, you could be joining me at Columbia—”

“I  _ did  _ try,” Monty said, and Andy’s mouth snapped shut, guilt bubbling somewhere deep. “You trying and me trying are different things.”

“I know, Monty,” and his gaze dropped back down to the forest floor. It felt wrong to still just be standing there; for the last three years, their friendship had meant keeping each other even-keeled, a mutual oasis from everything else the school forced down their throats. What was there to say now?

A long silence passed. The mystery bird called again, a vehement doublet.

“Fuck,” Monty said as he sat up again, back against the tree. His face was still stained but his features were once again schooled. Somehow, seeing everything locked back up inside Monty sent another tendril of panic through Andy, one that made his hand twitch outwards. Blood rushed in his ears. “Definitely a flycatcher. What now?”

“What do you mean?” 

“Do we keep going? Or do you want to go back?” Monty said. Neither his face or his voice held any expectation, and Andy didn’t know what the correct answer was. What it’d mean.

He swallowed. “Lead the way.”

It wasn’t really Monty’s nature, and it took another few minutes of him squinting upwards at the sky before he finally said, “Let’s keep going. If we hit the lake, we should be able to spot some migrating ducks.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Barefoot Contessa voice: If you successfully dodged any advanced math classes through the final six years of your education, a Mean Girls reference is fine.
> 
> Brief history note: Black wouldn't even start to overtake "negro" for another two years from when this story is set. I waffled over utilizing this knowledge, since I didn't want to leave people wondering if a main character just dropped a slur in the final scene, but I felt it was consistent with the fact that this is set on the cusp of the sixties really becoming _The Sixties._
> 
> Thank you reine_des_corbeaux for giving me an excuse to write this, and I hope you have a happy Jukebox.


End file.
